


where the weed decays

by homo_pink



Series: tumblr fics [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ass to Mouth, Emotional Manipulation, First Time, Lolita!Sam, M/M, Weecest, overly childish Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 11:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12480820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/pseuds/homo_pink
Summary: for anon, who kindly asked 4ever ago:something like blowjob queen like dean being sammy's whenever , but sam only being deans when sam wants. dean totally gone for sam and sam toying with him, making dean almost cry with lust, sam almost lolita like with his young boy thighs and sweetheart pink lips. give me needy weecest or give me death. im begging for it, for your writing. dirty, wrong, lustful weecest. where sam turns dean inside out just with his kid breath and doe eyes. pleasehere’s mean little lolita!sammy ruining dean just for funsies.





	where the weed decays

**Author's Note:**

> title from nabokov

Sam gets the tiny wink of his bellybutton pierced at the devil’s tail of summer’s end.

It lasts only for a while, until Sam grows bored of it.

Sam’s outgrowing things constantly the year he turns thirteen — band shirts that Dad wore before Dean, the backseat of their sleek black mobile home, a life spent stifled between a drunk and a delinquent — and eventually it’ll be Dean’s turn to sit on that sorrowful little list.

Sam won’t always need him around. Worse, Sam won’t always want him close.

But for now he pulls up the thready hem of a Poison ’93 World Tour tee that used to sit at Dean’s belt buckle, now sawed off to almost crop top obscenity, and nudges Dean to look.

Dean doesn’t just look, of course. He stares. And aches.

It’s a tiny silver loop through the tippy top, not even one of those dangle charms, or the big diamond bars the girlies in Dad’s titmags wear. Dean thinks it might be a small earring hoop actually. It’s delightfully fucking skanky and Dean falls hard for it.

Mouth cottony, Dean looks away. “Old man’s gonna kill you,” he says, and presses his hipbones to the kitchen sink counter, badly in need of privacy.

Sam rolls his eyes like a b-movie teen queen and clicks his teeth. Says something that sounds erringly like _not if I kill him first_ , but he’s sloped off to the other room now, fled into the arms of one of his summer reading list novels.

Dad never ends up noticing. He’s too tired, too busy, too boozy most heat-swelter days. His youngest son’s tight, tan, girl smooth tummy isn’t something he spends an awful lot of time fretting over.

Not like his oldest son does. It sucks being in love with your little brother.

 

~

 

August feels like death row.

Compressing, archaic, and the notion that something real bad is waiting around the turn.

Dixie Inn is a gas-mart town, said and done. They’ve got two scrappy hair salons, a spicy seafood restaurant with a mostly dead-gamed arcade off to the side, and a head count the size of the high school Dean attended three states ago. Clothes stick to bones and the water’s sometimes foggy brown if run too long.

Dad says they won’t be there but a breath, but he pays eight weeks rent anyway. Shitholes go for $88/month and a carton of Newports that year.

The neighbor next to them lets her tear-stained curtains billow in the open window, lets her records scratch and skip, mournful oldies. Sometimes Sam says he thinks he hears her crying at night. Dean thinks Sam just likes listening to people in pain.

 

~

 

They fit in around town. The red-eyed haggard man who rolls up with a couple of dirty-nailed kids trailing behind him like beer cans on a bumper.

John and his liquor-tar breath, the engine oil hands. Sam’s greasy mess of windblown hair; thin, half grown, mosquito bit legs. The cheap tobacco mouth on Dean — set to sneer. Not to mention Dean’s downright inbred urges.

Yeah, the Winchesters are a couple hundred times nastier. Grimier, too recluse.

Most of their civil cues come from barfights or old black and whites.

One of Sam’s counselors tried to tell John his boys were socially stunted, but that was two handfuls of no name towns ago and she doesn’t exist to them anymore. She didn’t really exist then either. Dean slips further and further into misplaced lust the longer they go without steady, non-blood related companionship. He was probably born sick.

 

~

 

All day long, crooners are carrying over the stale soupy air.

Bobby Vinton is lonely, Patsy Cline is crazy, and Skeeter Davis reckons herself a clown. Dean feels a stupid mix of all three. Because Sam knows.

Or Sam thinks he knows, at least. And that’s only half as bad as really knowing.

He does things to Dean. Mean things.

...pulls shiny red chocolate-centered suckers out of his mouth and slips them between Dean’s lips midsentence.

...hide’n’seek humps Dean’s pillow, Dean only finding out when he’s turning in, face crammed into the sharp scent of Sam’s most secret smells. 

...leaves bathroom graffiti when he knows it’s Dean’s turn next. Shaving cream hearts in the mildew sink, a kiss-print smudged in the mirror steam, the word **DIRTY** spelled out with strands of his own soggy hair on the tile in the tub.

Dean’s little brother is as cold and as cruel and as beautiful as a king should be.

But it could be worse. At least Sam only thinks that Dean wants to fuck him.

 

~

 

The Winchester baby in newfound teenagehood is food stamp scrawny but it’s never hurt Dean more than it does when he presses the pronounced knob of his ankle against Dean’s leg under the table, Dad circling suspicious deaths on page 7.

Dean coughs masticated pancake bits into his juice cup and Sam complains, “you’re so fucking gross, Dean,” curdles his nose, but his ankle’s still roaming poetically higher.

It’s just about footjobbing the inner seam at Dean’s thigh when Dad tells Sam, “watch your damn mouth”, offhand, reflex fathering attempt, mentally loading up his arsenal. Dean nearly, so nearly, has a running-down-the-leg orgasm with John Winchester right there crunching toast.

 

~

 

The callous creature stops at nothing.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam says one day-drizzle afternoon, _Clueless_ playing unimportantly on the TV that’s only down a few pixels.

“Yes,” Dean says back, groused, because it’s the fifth _hey Dean_ since the last commercial break. He’s stirring a pan of butter sauce and tossing around the pantry for a box of corkscrew pasta they scored red tag a week past expiration.

Sam’s been in the other room, tirelessly clicking through what few channels they get, stopping on a maxipad commercial, ugh, this again, click, some watery low-budget 70′s horror, Sam sissing his teeth and boredly pointing out heavy handed inaccuracies, the actual location of a person’s pharynx, click.

“How much does it suck that he was only her stepbrother?”

Dean pitches the spoon sideways, a crash in his pulse, and some of it globs over onto the stove. He says back, a little pitchy, a little weird, “what?”

“You know, like. There wasn’t anything that tied them together or anything.”

“I guess,” Dean says, and rests his vertigo head on an off-center cupboard door. “So?”

“No, I mean,” Sam’s voice comes through the open doorway, floaty, surreal. “How much do you think it sucks that he was only her stepbrother?” And then he laughs. Little and hateful and delighted with himself.

 

~

 

It’s 103 degrees out and Dean might think it’s punishment for his sins, were he the pious type. He isn’t. Deuteronomy 27:22 isn’t spiking his radar.

“Hate this fuckass heat,” Sam says, severing his jeans at the knee, and then, dissatisfied, scissoring those off until they’re almost music video-ho daisies. He looks like a model’s illness when he puts them on his growing bones.

He looks like the thing Dean tries not to wetdream about at night, but does in floods.

Sam only wears them when Dad’s not home. Dad’s not home a lot.

 

~

 

The end of summer glazes by like strawberry laffy taffy.

Stretched thin and sticky everywhere he shouldn’t be, Dean’s actually glad when John finds something paranormal to go out and asphyxiate every few 6-packs. It’s not even the voodooism. There’s witchery and skeleton key afterlife tucked into all of Louisiana’s spiderweb crannies.

Dad and Uncle Bobby are looking into a possible spirit leftover from the bubonic plague, quarantined and forgotten about, when Sam slams the screen door open and drops down into the rocking chair that lives out on the gravel driveway right where Dean’s trying to figure out why the car’s making that caterwaul noise, the evening weather report tinnying out of the boombox Dean’s got propped on a cooler.

The ratchet wrench is shock-still in his hand now. 

Dean stopped caring about the big steel love of his life the instant the small one made of flesh sat down twenty feet away.

 

~

 

Maybe if he had an EMF handy, it’d detect the trickle of unholy in the air.

But then, maybe it wouldn’t. Some evil is smarter than that, traceless.

Sam pulls a little glass bottle out of his shorts pocket and starts swiping polish in tomboy strokes over his long wiggly toes.

It’s a candy-shell pink color that dad probably (probably) won’t ever find out about.

It’s the same color as Sam’s lips, Sam’s nipples. Dean's blinks sting and he blames it on the fumes when the thought comes to him that it’s probably what Sam’s softness looks like inside, too.

_Gonna be a scarlet of a scorcher tonight, folks,_ the plastic voice says from the speakers, like they’re describing hell.

“Dean?” Sam says when he’s done a messy few, slim foot arched, baiting sugar voice. “I can’t. I don’t think I’m very good at this.” Every word is a teddy bear pout, and Dean’s had temporary girlfriends with little red purses he refused to hold. “Do you think you could—”

Dean’s already wiping his hands on a rag, walking over with probably a humiliating love-look on his face, blood filling what’s gotta be his tenth chub-up of the day.

He needs very little stimulation when it comes to Sam and right now, Sam’s proximity feels like a mortal risk. Dad’s been ghost for almost a week.

 

~

 

Of course he only remembers later, when his head’s back under the hood and Sam’s happily slurping purple koolaid, fresh pedi, the ecology lesson plan that explained in ticky bulletpoints how the most efficient predators are the ones that let their prey come right to them.

 

~

 

Night is slicing through the hickory trees when Dean says, _“don’t”_ and still means it. Mostly means it. He hadn’t been asleep, not nearly.

His hand trembles where it’s slapped over Sam’s wrist, holding it down, having halted its quiet quest into the waistband of Dean’s underwear.

There’s no yellow light warning but Dean was never going to be ready anyway. Loving a boy like Sam is a no-airbag car crash. 

There are no other boys like Sam.

He can _hear_ Sammy’s eyes rolling in the dark. He still doesn’t know, yet, exactly how colorless his little brother’s eyes can be.

“He’ll probably be back tomorrow, you know,” Sam says, fatigued with it, and leaves it hanging solidly in the air like a noose.

 

~

 

Dean’s been to jail once, juvie twice, a felony stay real soon, but this right now, what’s happening in their hot little taboo cocoon, is the one crime Dean never sought to commit. But he still leaves fingerprints all over the scene.

In all fool’s fairness, Dean had really thought Sam might just want a little kiss. 

Sam doesn’t. Dean’s not even sure Sam wants that at all, ever. He hasn’t allowed Dean to give him one yet.

“Yeah,” Sam says in a pant, “yeah,” quick-breathed babbling to himself, “knew you’d be like this.” His hand cupping Dean’s head is zero cradle and all command. “So _gross_. God, you’re so gross.”

Dean’s hidden down in the blankets, head between Sam’s legs, Sam’s underfed thighs trying to skullcrush him, and he’s got Sam buried between his lips. Sam, who isn’t sweet anywhere else, any time else, tastes like pink sprinkles right here. 

 

~

 

“Don’t take your mouth off,” Sam says. His back is arched like a cursive Q. “And don’t look at me, either.”

Sam sounds far away, like his chin’s tilted to the sloped ceiling and his eyes are rolled dead-white and like he can never really entirely be Dean’s. 

His belly jewelry glints with every fluttered movement. 

Dean figures out how to push strings of spit back out onto Sam’s small cock, lather it, suck, and reaches up to hold Sam’s hand through it all. He wills Sam, a fluent in ancient languages, to understand.

If Sam thinks Dean’s done this before, a — a _blowjob_ , he’s singularly wrong. 

Sam laughs in response, something older than thirteen in his throat. Curls his wishbone waist in quick, unpracticed jerks. And, unexpectedly, braids their fingers together. Tightly, like the ends are knotted.

It only serves in making Dean’s chest feel kicked open, like Sam’s got his nails needling in, breaking inside just to disorganize the careful tomb of contents. 

 

~

 

“No,” Sam tells him, when their mouths are nearly touching. Just simple and dull. No.

Dean tries to clog back whatever must be trapped in his stare but. Sam sees. He watches things. He’ll be one half of the world’s two deadliest hunters someday. 

He’s got that look on his face, now, that specific look, the one he gets over scatter plot graphs, the first time he read _The Color Purple_. The one he gets when he’s learning something.

Everybody knows Sam Winchester sits on the A honor roll.

Babying a hand over the contours of Dean’s face, he looks at Dean there waiting, says purred, ruthless, “You know brothers aren’t supposed to kiss, dumbass.”

 

~

 

Dean’s usually got the instincts of a carnivore, so getting his life grabbed by the ankles and shaken upside down is amateur hour, it is, but — _stupid old Dean_ , he hears in a hiccupy voice, that probably happened a long time ago. Hospital trip, 1983.

Sam is the only thing in the world that scares Dean.

 

~

 

There’s a little gingham dishtowel that usually hangs from the oven door handle. Dean stares at that, wrung in one of Sam’s puppy hands, and counts the non-distorted white squares to keep his overfull balls from blowing.

Sam lets Dean double-finger him right there in the kitchen, in the rose-gold of daylight, Dean sucking little pink heart-marks all along the stretch of his throat, eyes down, eyes on the towel, Sam’s sighs thickening the air so it clouds.

He’s all the way down to the brawler’s knuckle when Sam gasps, pushes him off and away, says, “okay, there, I’m done,” even though he’s not, neither of them are, and collects his lanky limbs off the pea green linoleum countertop. Little bare feet take him away, retwisting his shorts as he goes.

Dean stands there, burning, hard, and eyes full of fat tears for that kid.

Sam’s a leaver and Dean’s gonna learn it.

 

~

 

A backdated issue of some housewife magazine is spread on his lap when Dean comes in from washing red dirt road dust off his other best girl.

Trained by the same man on the same rules with the same discipline, Sam knows without looking when Dean enters the room.

“Are your needs being adequately met after the wildcherry candles are blown out?” Sam reads off the pages, contemplative. He scoffs, gnaws the end of the pen, circles an answer. His wrist moves bitchily.

“Do his friends know all about your shoe collection, or are chances high that they may be unaware of your last name, girl?”

A sharp barky laugh, something casually cutting about Dean never having had a friend in his life. Another squiggled circle.

Sammy goes through _how he looks at you_ and _what his endearments mean_ and _how many Valentine’s can you see yourself beside him_ and Dean doesn’t find out until Sam’s thrown the thing in the garbage days later that all of Sam’s answers lead to the poppy fluorescent magenta bubble-square that advises:

♥ **He’s for life, little lady! This guy adores your morning hair and the diamond will prove it. Just don’t break his big heart.** ♥

The page, like Dean’s gunshot expression, is particularly crumpled up.

 

~

 

Angel tits are what gambling men cash paychecks for the chance to touch. Young, new. Perky playground dreams. Small handfuls pointing heavenward. 

“Okay,” Sam says, annoyed, “I guess.” 

It gives Dean too much power; for a moment, he’s an outline of a god and Sam’s the illusion of a white-winged seraph. 

“But none of that teeth crap. Don’t fucking bite me, Dean.”

Sam doesn’t want to be looked at, and Dean can’t look at him likewise.

He mouths at Sam’s sun-warm chest, flat and insignificant and very boy, and listens to Sam call him a _fuh-reak_ , call him _weird, ugh_ , then listens as Sam goes hitched, mute, little spine trembles. Even Sam’s moans are cute.

Sam’s got angel tits. 

 

~

 

By the time their dad stumbles back in with a shadow past 5 and a new torment in his tread, Dean’s had Sam on the surface of everywhere. 

Dad returns to their new two-person life and it has Dean feeling like a big, big fish in a tiny cup of water.

It was all supposed to stop when Dad got back.

 

~

 

Punchy with his words, they find reasons to get out of John’s hair.

They’re walking down an uneven sidewalk on the way to the Sav-Mart to buy dinner and necessities when Sam says, “hold my hand” on some kind of drifting butterfly impulse.

“God,” he says all cat-scratch when Dean’s done it wrong. “Not little kid.” Like the times past; Dean — eight, Sam — four, when they looked both ways at life. “Do it like I’m your girl.”

He does the finger-braid thing that Sam seems to like and Sam — goes and finds a deep dimple just for Dean. Sam swings their hands while they walk.

Dean had never fully understood it, the idea of a — femme fatale, it was foreign to him, before. But little Sammy W. with his wink-pink asshole and his mud-lace sneakers that Dean taught him how to bunny ear tie is schooling him properly.

 

~

 

At the back of the store next to the ice cream coolers, there’s a small thing with a rust-colored ponytail and a wholesome lil’ gap in her teeth.

She’s trying to decide between sherbet on a stick or a little tub of butterscotch made in-house, and Sam is two skinny aisles over stuffing his arms with pepper pork rinds, cans of vegetal nutrition.

Dean’s feeling fond, an unheard of happy, the knowledge of how his little brother looks when he needs to come so bad sitting high in his chest — it’s the only real reason he says anything at all. 

“Try the peach cream flavor,” he tells her, like a real person, polite, “they put chunks of fruit in it.” It’s been Sam’s favorite for a month.

“I—okay,” she says, when she looks over and her eyes stumble, seeming to notice what all exactly is standing next to her, “okay.” Easy, pie. Dean could have her with a leghole of her panties pulled aside before she’s even paid if he wanted.

If he wanted.

She gives him a lightly glossed grin, nipping lip. To her, Dean may as well’ve thrown out an invite to go tearing pavement with him in his ‘67 bow tie.

A sharp, high noise from nearby unbalances him quick because Sam in distress means _move, react_.

Starting to case the store — elderly dude with a tennis-balled walker by the front door, cashier restocking scratch off tickets, there’s nothing immediately visible or amiss, not until he sees the thing dreaded most. 

Little flips of hair, and barely tall enough to see over the aisles, just two accusing eyes staring back at him, at them, brow low, _hurt_ , angrily looking away again.

 

~

 

“Sam,” he says, third try. Dean’s carrying all the bags home by himself.

Sam kicks at a flat chunk of rock, jimmies his hands further into his pockets.

He should be aggravated. He wishes he was aggravated. All Dean feels is miserable.

“Sam, are you not talking to me?” Sam not-talks to him more. “It wasn’t. What you’re thinking isn’t. She’s not. I don’t — it wasn’t anything!” His voice chips off. He’s never heard himself groveling before. “Sammy, please.“

A quarter mile to the trailer lot, the weather-bleached flamingo sign barely coming into view, Sam snaps, “I’m an only child now. So fuck off, Dean. Just leave me alone.”

 

~

 

John Winchester is a man who’s built his reputation on hunches, intuition and military grade craft. So Dean doubts truly that he’s oblivious to the stone-heavy hostility weighing down their double wide. 

Maybe Dad just thinks it’s an age riff, or boredom quarrel. A couple of wrong-side-of-town teen boys looking to spit and snarl and take it out on each other.

Sam gets bitchy over whole milk and zits on his chin. Dad probably thinks it’s just that. That’s the reason Sam ignores his older brother, doesn’t reply, doesn’t acknowledge, doesn’t look at him once for the rest of the evening.

Whatever he thinks, Dad’s certainly not thinking — _lover’s spat_.

 

~

 

A horsefly could whimsy its way into Dean’s open mouth when, after supper and entry-salting, Sam says to him, “I want to make love tonight.”

Dean doesn’t yelp, on survival mode alone.

He sets aside the filleting blade he’d been sharpening, pokerfaces a glance to the sofa room, color crawling all down his chest, arm hairs soldiering up rigid.

Dad’s tanked on the recliner, empty loved-out longneck dangling off his fingertips, and Dean wants to glare at Sam for the recklessness of it, but, “what.”

“Tonight, you heard me,” Sam tells him plainly, almost actively indifferent. “You want to or not?”

“Sam, you know I,” he says, a lot more whispered, “of course,” god, “but we,” he can’t say _we can’t_ , he can’t say an outright no to that face.

“We can,” Sam says, answering anyway. “You will.” He nods once, like it’s settled. He’s deemed it so. “Yes you will, Dean.”

 

~

 

It’s Andy Williams singing sorrows on the record that night, as Sam’s curling a girl-small hand around the bulged out pulse on Dean’s throat.

The song is louder, here, out in the car with the windows down so they don’t murk. A bullfrog croaks and the stars are only a little polluted. 

They’re already sticking to the tired backseat leather, Dean’s pants shoved down only just enough, Sam’s thirdhand tee rucked up, the threat of someone — someone 6′2″, soaked in tequila, and skilled in every revolver chamber — catching their desperation not allowing them bare skinned greed.

And Dean is, he’s desperate.

“I planned this,” Sam says, wearing a doll blush. “It had to be here, I wanted to do it right here. With you.” Dean holds himself still, above Sam. 

“Sam,” he says, body in a coldsweat.

Only half an hour’s passed since Sam, gone still in the sheets, on his side, watching the midnight silhouette of Dean’s consternation, said, “can we go to the car?”

Now he thinks his cock might be crying. It’s runny and drooling french-kisses against Sam’s puny thigh just like a heartbreak, too.

The reality is that it’s gonna happen this time, for real. The thought overwhelms him to the point of a stomach ache.

And Sam — Sam who has theories on the scientific components behind ectoplasm, and who steals lipsticks he won’t wear just for ‘good practice’, and who shaved his legs silky before bed just for this, for Dean — Sam, with a horribly shy voice, tells him, hands mapping nervously over Dean’s back, “This is where I thought about you the most, Dean.”

 

~

 

A soft, pinkish, newborn scent lives just beneath the shell of Sam’s ear, down his flower-stem neck.

He doesn’t like to take showers but he has a thing about not stinking. Baby powder suits him.

Dean drags his lips there, eyes slid closed. “Wanna put it in your ass so bad, Sammy,” he trembles out, too honest. Sam is his confessional and Sam always gets Dean’s dick so hard. “You want me to, right?”

Sam’s let Dean do a lot of things to him, but never this. 

“Only if you love me,” Sam tells him, pulling Dean’s face out of his neck to eyeball him. His legs fall wide open. His smile is drowsy.

He’s ribboning a curl of hair around his trigger finger.

 

~

 

It’s nothing like pussy. It’s _better_ than pussy. It’s Sam and Sam is — so much.

 

~

 

“Don’t worry,” Sam says, while Dean’s still pressing in. He lifts a leg to help, leans up to smear a smile all along Dean’s ear, “It’s only illegal if you call me sister.”

Dean’s sloppy wet to the nuts when he says, already sprung, “how. How?”

He looks down just once, just to see, watching his cock sink in, _moving_ in Sam.

“Vag-in-al intercourse only,” Sam tells him, _duh_ -toned. “I,” high gasp, flown open eyes. “I read about it. Just don’t bang a female relative. Or drip out a little bastard.”

Sam didn’t say they needed to wear a rubber. Dean’s bone-bare inside of him, as married as he’ll ever get. Sam’s small body feels so good. 

 

~

 

For one soft second, while Dean’s rocking in him and Sam’s head is bouncing adorably, his fan of hair looks like a little crown, or a halo.

Then he pushes a sigh up his face and his gnarled flippies return to their natural horn shape. “Oh jeez, don’t get fucking emotional.”

 

~

 

It lasts for eleven minutes, grand total, before Dean involuntarily loses his whole load in him, Sam all split open and digging heels into Dean’s thighs, ballerina tippy toes. _Don’t pull out, Dean, okay? Please. Nothing bad’s gonna happen._

Three and a half songs, long enough for ol’ Andy to have moved on to the realization that he’ll never get used to losing his girl.

After, Sam crawls down to the floorboards, legs hidden in a coil. Dean’s still gasping at the roof, fingers flexed around the door handle, at a loss, in love.

 

~

 

“No, ohmygod,” Dean says, hands torn between trying to pull his pants back up and pushing chunks of sex-hair out of Sam’s eyes. “Sam, I — don’t think I can.”

The storybooks all say that kings are merciless, and it’s true. 

“Shh,” Sam tells him, paying him no mind. He rubs his face all around Dean’s crotch, playfully smacks the side of his cheek with cock. “Just shhh.” Sam’s known his way around a lollipop since he was 4.

It’s the first time Dean’s ever ever spilled a tear while getting head. But it’s only the first.

 

~

 

On the third go, it’s mostly Sam rubbing raw on Dean’s leg, spider-straddling, humping, holding possessively onto Dean’s slippery shoulders, and Dean swears the car will always carry a before/after smell in his memories.

“Put it back in,” Sam asks, no question at all. “Just part of it, just _something_.” 

He moves awkwardly, unselfconscious, too new at it to know how, and his thin hips have a fine tremor to them, foot shaking like he’s gonna shoot real hard, please, oh please. “ _Dean_.” It isn’t just the tip, and Sam’s so frothy-full still.

Dean roots in deep.

The love that comes out of Sammy is a heart-clenching sort of see-through, a thin clear fluid that has no muscle to it yet, kid wet. But Sam screams and he shudders and he really likes Dean’s thumb rubbing at him like a girl-part.

Lashes woven together with sweat, Sam flutters them, settles in where he’s sat on Dean’s lap, loops his arms round the back of Dean’s neck.

Sam sways in, and Dean holds his breath, paralysis, because the bitty tip of Sam’s princess nose scrapes against his, just softly, and then—

Sam is kissing him. On his mouth, parting his teeth, giggling when Dean’s tongue just lies there, all dead with disbelief. 

They kiss for forever, little sips of lip, big drinks full of spit. Whimpers and whispers, secrets to take to the pyre. 

Sam Winchester’s got a face for missing posters and if he said tomorrow _let’s run away_ , John would never be able to find either one of his sons again.

 

~

 

“Shit, I’m all ruined.”

Middle of their room, Sam’s squatting on the floor, holding a makeup compact under his bottom. 

“You,” kitten-weak push, “you ruined me, Dean.” A splash of milk seeps out, blurs the reflection. “I won’t look like a romance novel ever again.”

 

~

 

A Budweiser bottle vase goes hurtling through the air, and the little tuft of red begonias Dean picked — stole — for Sam gets trampled in the fight.

It’s a fluke that it’s not worse. Hospital worse. It could’ve been a throwing knife. Sam’s ace at those. Dean might’a been down an ear. 

“You can’t drop _out_ ,” Sam says, shoulders drooped, belly sucking in. He looks defeated. His voice sounds like a see-saw. “You can’t leave me, you can’t. You swore.” Dean wraps his littleness up in a hug, can’t not. “I can’t be the only creepy weirdo in school,” a snotty sniffle.

Dean laughs, says, “I’ll stay as long as I can, okay?”

“K,” Sam says, placated. For now. He wipes his nose off on Dean’s sleeve, then untangles himself and walks away. He says over the scrap of a shoulder, “good. I don’t wanna have to find a new Dean.”

 

~

 

He’s mad in the head again. Sam’s always mad at something. Today it’s Dean’s turn for Sam to be mad at. Today Dean has to beg off getting laid.

“I hate you,” Sam says, more spittle than words. “I hate you and I’ll never let you touch me with your disgusting greasemonkey hands again, you asshole.”

“Sam,” he says, sharp, like _shut up_ , but he can’t, he couldn’t, not anymore, not even when Dad’s just shutting off the shower. Sam wants his pussy licked and Dean’s gonna have a heart attack too young. 

“Look what you did,” Sam tells him, stomping. “Now it’s too late and he’s coming back out and we could’ve—” His eyes are full of shocked fury, mouth in a little pink O against Dean’s palm, buckled over his whole jaw, but he quiets and calms and looks dreamy again the second Dean unbuttons his shorts and starts fingering his tiny butt.

Dean prays to the nothing-gods that it’s a Barbasol day for Dad.

 

~

 

In the dank dark, Sam loves him, loves him not.

 

~

 

“You look funny with my dick in your mouth,” Sam says, sickly sweet. 

A vesper breeze comes through the lopsided window screen, and with it a yellow ladybug who lands ticklishly on Sam’s summer-stubbly leg. He strokes the small body, and very courteously doesn’t crush it to a smear. 

“Almost, Dean,” cheerful groan. “Almost, just.” Thigh gap, high sigh. Little cream. 

 

~

 

The Lucky Cat bowling alley’s got nine lanes and a urinal that’ll give you gono if you stand still long enough. It’s hidden in the marsh of town behind a barber shop with a helix stripe post.

Dean takes Sam there, and sticks a quarter in one of the 5-unit gumball machines while Sam’s off renting the clown shoes or whatever.

It’s the kind that’s got little hard fruit shaped candies and peel-off tattoos, fake rabbit feet, puppylove tokens.

Eating a nail down to nil, Dean hands the small ball to Sam, unable to find a word for his thoughts or a thought past this feeling, and he says, “guess it’s not a diamond, but—” and stares unfalteringly at the neon geometric carpet.

Sammy snicks the plastic lid off, peeks curiously in. Sam’s hands are mostly meatless, and the thing is shaped like a cartoon heart.

He puts the dumb, jazzy little pink-jewel ring on and pinches it so it fits.

 

~

 

Nobody gets to know them. Nobody ever gets to know them.

But before they’ve moved on to a new mile and the Winchesters are just urban legends again — while Dad’s out refilling the gas jug, Sam grabs for Dean’s wrist on a September morning. It’s balmy out, a clove cigarette scent.

“So gross, Dean,” he sighs, kissing him out on the water warped front steps, next to an overturned flower pot. Sam closes his bad-omen eyes, stretches up tall as he can; he’s still just real little, won’t be big for a time. “So, so, so gross.” 

_I know_ , Dean thinks, letting himself be kissed, messily kissed, _you, too. Me, too._

The college applications won’t come trickling into their world for another handful of years, and Sam will stay locked-diary about it until the very end.

 

~

 

Wounds are easier for the young to overcome. The redder the better. Sam’s belly heals up fine, less than a month. Dean’s heart stays at a handicap, close to forever.

Brothers don’t kiss, but _brothers_ is the only life they know.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr post [here](http://homo-pink.tumblr.com/post/166746870502/for-anon-who-kindly-asked-4ever-ago-something)


End file.
